"No, sahib," said the Bengali; "such escapade, if successful, is beyond my ken. There have been attempts; cui bono? Nobody is an anna the better. Nay, the last state of such misguided men is even worse; they die suffering very ingenious torture."
Desmond had been amazed at the Babu's command of English until he learned that the man was an omnivorous reader, and in his leisure at Calcutta had spent many an hour in poring over such literature as his master's scanty library afforded, the works of Mr. Samuel Johnson and Mr. Henry Fielding in particular.
At this moment Desmond said no more, but in the dead of night, when all were asleep, he leaned over to the Babu's charpoy and gently nudged him.
"Surendra Nath!" he whispered.
"Who calls?" returned the Babu.
"Listen. Have you yourself ever thought of escaping?"
"Peace and quietness, sir. He will hear."
"Who?"
"The Gujarati, sir--Fuzl Khan."
"But he doesn't understand. And if he did, what then?"